by Peggy Waide
"That is, if you think we mere women can find our way there?" Phoebe sarcastically added.
Stephen practically growled. He plastered a bland look on his face. "Be my guest. Since you women," he emphasized the word, "seem to have things under control, I shall take my feeble man's mind in search of Winston and Elizabeth."
Stephen silently maneuvered down the back servant's stairs leading in the general direction of the kitchen. The single tallow candle, which produced a faint sheeplike odor, tormented his nostrils. After what some might call dinner served in the library, he had lain awake thinking about Phoebe and her inheritance, staff included, when he heard the soft fall of footsteps outside his door. He swore he'd smelled pipe tobacco as well. He knew Winston was tucked in bed with Elizabeth, so he had immediately followed.
Reaching the lower floor, he peered around the doorway, looking in both directions. Nothing stirred. As he listened for any noise, he thought again of Phoebe and her newest predicament. Marsden Manor was a disaster, the amount of money required to restore the place astronomical, not to mention the odd collection of servants.
Regardless of his need for a title, a man would have to be a supremely self-sacrificing fool to invest funds in this mausoleum. With no additional financial support and a coastline of cliffs unsuitable for use by most sailors, Marsden Manor had little future, which made Phoebe's task to find a husband near impossible. His proposal made even greater sense now than it did before.
Odd, but he found no joy in her current state of affairs. He knew, as surely as he knew himself, that regardless of all his warnings, she still hoped he would marry her. Not a chance. He'd already killed two wives. He refused to add Phoebe to the list.
The image of his first wife came to mind. Emily had been so damn trusting, so easy to please. She had wanted a balcony added to the original structure of Badrick Manor, joining her room to his. She'd asked for so little, he'd gladly seen to the arrangements. The balcony had become her favorite place to sit, to read and enjoy the morning sun. If only he had known.
Both Emily and his child had died while he sat in the comfort of his study, sipping a brandy and reading the bloody newspaper. They'd fallen to their deaths while he'd pondered the coming races at Ascot. His first marriage and its abrupt conclusion seemed a lifetime ago, yet to this day, the pain struck like a dagger to his heart. He clenched his fist around the candle. Lord, why couldn't his past stay buried?
A door creaked and a dim light glowed down the hall near what he'd learned from earlier explorations was the old music room. The flame of his candle flickered. A cold rush of air brushed his body. He barely contained his excitement. The culprit sneaking about would soon be caught dead to rights. He crept forward using every bit of stealth he could muster and peered inside. Hard to believe, but the room was empty.
"Damn," Stephen muttered. Cursing a second time because it improved his mood, he froze when he heard the light fall of footsteps. Didn't anyone in this bloody household sleep? He sneaked over to the arched doorway.
An apparition, cloaked in white and suspiciously familiar, tiptoed toward him. Much to Stephen's surprise, when the ghostly figure whacked her toe on a loose floorboard, she swore like a sailor on shore leave.
Within two long strides, he gripped her wrist and whirled her about. Before she could scream, waking everyone else, he covered her mouth with his hand. "Are you out of your mind? What the devil do you think you're doing?"
Phoebe twisted her head to the side and whispered furiously, "Me? You scared the very wits out of me."
"Answer my question."
"I couldn't sleep and then I heard someone downstairs."
"So you decided to investigate?" When she nodded, he dragged his hand through his hair, ordering himself not to yell. He certainly didn't need anyone else lurking in the hallways. The woman was like a willful child, always going where she wanted, when she wanted, with little thought to the consequences. "That was bloody stupid."
"What about you?"
"I'm a man. I'm supposed to seek out adversaries, protect the woman, the home and all that."
"Nonsense." When all the muscles on his face tensed, she planted her hands on her hips. "Well, o great defender of hearth, whatever did you find?"
"The person sneaking around waltzed into the music room and disappeared. Hardly normal comings and goings."
Her eyes rounded and she looked from side to side like someone trapped in a cemetery long after dark. "No need to fret, Phoebe. I do not believe your ancestor dropped by for a nightcap. Ghosts tend to walk through obstacles. Our intruder used a door. He must have slipped by me."
"However did you let that happen?"
He started to answer, then decided to keep his churlish remark to himself. Given his current mood, he'd likely end with a blistering lecture on common sense, which she'd likely resent. Turning on his heels, her hand in his, he headed back down the hall. "Where is Dee? And don't tell me she allowed you to sneak down here unaccompanied."
"She never heard me. Once she's asleep, a barnyard full of roosters couldn't wake her before sunrise."
That little tidbit certainly garnered the full attention of both his mind and body. Stopping dead in his tracks, he allowed his eyes to travel down Phoebe's silk-clad body and back up again. Tiny pearl buttons ran the length of the robe all the way to her neck, where she'd forgotten to fasten the uppermost three. A touch of delicate pink lace peeked above the collar. Her hair fell in auburn waves down her back. He lowered his voice to a purr. "That's not exactly the wisest thing to tell a man bent on seduction."
She swallowed quickly, yanked the robe tight about her neck and thrust her pert little nose high in the air. "I assure you, Lord Badrick, I'll be seduced if and when I decide I want to be seduced. In all likelihood, that won't happen until my wedding night."
Stephen merely grunted. He tightened his grip about her hand, pulling her with him, unwilling to enter into a discussion on matrimony at this hour of the night.
"Wherever are we going?"
"The music room. There has to be something I missed."
"Like Grandfather Augustus."
"Doubtful."
A damp chill had settled over the house like a shroud as the rain continued to pour. Whispers of cold air from the cracks in the windowpanes danced about hall, reminding Stephen he wore only a thin shirt hastily tucked into his breeches. Phoebe wasn't wearing much more than he did. Here they were, alone, without the benefit of a chaperone, barely dressed, in the middle of night, and he was leading her down a dark drafty hallway. He was going mad. "Did that cook say anything of use?"
"No," she answered regretfully.
"No worries. You'll have time tomorrow to ask Hampson your questions. Here we are."
The music room occupied the back corner of the first floor. The light from Stephen's candle brought shadows to life on walls in dire need of painting. A harp occupied one corner, and a small decanter and several glasses sat on a table, one lone chair nestled beside it.
Phoebe plucked her hand from Stephen's, stood on her tiptoes, and peered around his shoulder into the darkness. "Shouldn't we wait until morning? Lots of sunlight and all."
He felt her breasts against his back through the fabric of his shirt. Blast it all, he wasn't a bloody saint. How was a man supposed to uphold the best of his intentions with her body parts pressing against him? Delightful body parts. He pivoted about, prepared to offer her fair warning. Placing one hand behind her neck, he held her captive. "I'm fairly awake now. I probably couldn't sleep if I tried. If you wish, we could revisit our discussion from earlier today. I'd even be willing to demonstrate a technique or two. Shall we return to the safety of the library and"
He sensed the fires within her begin to heat. Her eyes rounded and her nostrils flared. "Ah, hell," he muttered, then dropped his lips to hers, speaking more eloquently than with words. Her breath hitched and her pulse raced beneath his fingers. That was all the invitation he needed. Without further thought, he molded h
is body to hers, his hands plumping the soft globes of her buttocks. Thigh to thigh with his chest glued to her breasts, he slid his tongue into her mouth. This was not a timid kiss, but one of fire and heat, expectation and promise. He removed his mouth from hers to nibble on the mole behind her left ear that drove him to distraction every time she wore her tidy braid.
She managed to speak between her reedy gasps of delight. "I don't think this is a very good idea. I mean, we might not be alone." Circling to the front of him, she pressed her backside against his front and said, "The least you could have done was bring a bigger light."
He managed a groan before, out of self-preservation, he wandered to the nearby wall. She followed him like the sweet scent of perfume. Occasional warm wisps of air fanned the sensitive spot behind his left ear. Ignoring the impulse to drag her into his arms, which would surely lead to other improper impulses, ones he was trying very hard to resist, he traced the space above the wooden molding.
"Whatever are we looking for?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. If someone came into this room, they had to have left by another exit."
"Like a hidden passage? How exciting."
Slowly circling the room, he thoroughly inspected each wall panel, periodically tapping the wood. From time to time, Phoebe imitated his actions, but mostly she hovered at his heels, leaving little space between them, chattering at a rapid pace.
"Did you know Wibolt's been at Marsden Manor for three years?" she said. "Hampson has been here forever. Anyway, Wibolt claims to know nothing about the finances, only that money was scarce. He mentioned other people and some nasty woman who used to come and go. I never quite understood that part. He began to fret something awful when I asked questions about Hampson or Grandfather, whom he claims he actually saw."
"Phoebe," Stephen said on a sigh. "You're talking about an old man you just met who might be responsible for this very mess. You're also rambling."
"It helps me think of something other than what I am currently doing, which right now is somewhat unappealing. I'm not in the habit of seeking ghosts in the middle of the night." She paused. "Anyway, one evening, on his way to the kitchen, on the lower floor of the south wing, Wibolt saw Augustus carrying a box while he smoked a pipe and whistled. He disappeared directly into the wall of family portraits in the west wing. Do you think that passages connect various parts of the manor?"
"Possibly." He tapped a panel one last time. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but bother, someone had come into this room. And he didn't believe in ghosts. At least not the kind that rose from the dead. He rubbed his fingers back and forth across his mustache. "Well, raise a bloody breeze."
Phoebe crossed to the window seat, balanced on her knees and peered into the night. "Whyever would someone be up and about on a night like this, anyway?"
"Hmmm." Stephen pondered the same question. He lit another candle, found a single crystal decanter on a small table, removed the brass stopper, then sniffed and smiled delightedly." 'Tis something we shall discover sooner or later."
Lightning ripped across the sky. The sight of Phoebe's nightclothes pulled taut over her derriere brightened Stephen's mood faster than the anticipated brandy. After filling two glasses, he joined her on the window cushion. Another white light flashed outside, causing Phoebe's skin to practically glow.
The cream silk nightgown and robe clung to her body, accentuating the curves Stephen had already imagined and memorized. Her red hair fell in waves down her back. She was temptation in its purest form. It was easy to imagine her naked beneath him, the rain pounding on the windows as he offered her his body heat. He would remove her clothes bit by bit, starting with the tiny pearl buttons, then ease his way to the shoulder nearest him. Using his mouth, he'd work his way toward her breast. He watched her tongue lick a drop of brandy from the corner of her mouth. Lord, he wanted to devour her.
Her eyes, softened by the alcohol and the late hour, gleamed with something akin to adoration. It was the kind of look that assaulted a man's heart, willing him to believe all things were possible. Even escaping gypsy curses and tortured pasts. Damn and blast, he thought, shaking his head, what was he thinking? She was beginning to plant impossible dreams in his head, and it frightened him to his very core. He shifted to the edge of his seat and crossed his arms and legs. "Don't look at me like that."
"I beg your pardon?" Phoebe asked. She was startled by the brusque tone of Stephen's voice.
"You heard me. Wielding that come-hither expression that incites men to ponder impossible things, turning them into blithering idiots. Only my frustration, which is your fault, makes me susceptible. If you were any other woman, you would be flat on your back right now, regardless of the consequences."
Phoebe watched Stephen move across the room with the animal grace she had come to appreciate. His movements were more agitated than normal, stemming from an inner restlessness she didn't comprehend. "It seems I arrived at the play after intermission."
He uttered a terse response from the doorway, his face concealed by shadow. "Do you intend to carry on with your preposterous plan?"
Trying to determine the reason for his mood shift, she answered slowly, cautiously. "I have no choice."
"Give over. The task you now face is impossible."
Phoebe recognized the truth. She'd thought of nothing less since she arrived here, since she'd finished a meager meal of potatoes and what she thought was ham cooked by Mrs. Potter, who flinched whenever a noise echoed elsewhere in the house; a meal served on chipped earthenware plates by Wibolt, who had worn a tattered livery. Marsden Manor was a hangman's noose about her neck. She kept her voice cheerful, almost flirtatious. "To which task do you refer, sir? It seems I have many these days."
"You have three weeks left to find a husband. Add this monstrosity of a home and your chances of making a match that won't make your life a living hell are slim."
"Granted, my task is more difficult."
"Humph," he snorted sarcastically. "Exactly what manner of man do you think to marry? Will you lie to him?"
All pretenses evaporated. She leapt from the window seat, her night robe whipping behind her as she advanced on Stephen. "How dare you? I intend to be frankly honest. If he wants his title, he'll have it. If he wishes to never set one foot here, fine and dandy. Don't you think I understand my circumstance? Do you think me a feather-headed pea brain with no scruples? I assure you, I am made of sterner stuff. I've worked before and I'll do so again if I have to, but I'm bound and determined to keep Marsden Manor even if I use one room at a time. Lands alive, it's not as if I need forty-eight rooms."
She shoved her hands into her pockets before she could do something stupid. Violence would accomplish nothing. She stomped from the music room, took four steps and exhaled, trying to purge her mounting frustration and anger. She whirled about. "I told myself I would not have another outburst like the one earlier today. Can't you even see the possibilities here?"
Joining her in the hallway, he said, "To be perfectly frank, no."
"That's because you're a man. You dream with logic and your pocketbook. Women dream with their hearts."
"It's a damn good thing we do, else the world would be in financial ruin. At least tell me why? You never saw this place before today."
If she convinced him of the importance of this place, he might at least understand her determination. She walked a bit, knowing he followed her. Three beautifully carved panels lined the hallway. She stopped beside one, allowing her fingers to drift along the dusty curves of the lifelike fruits and flowers draped with flowing ribbons. "Lordy, I know there's a lot to be done, but my mother was born and raised here. She loved the sea, the hills. She kept a miniature painting on the dresser in her bedroom. When I was young, I'd sneak into her room and imagine myself living here. It seemed like a fairy castle, a safe haven, the perfect place for a princess to live and wait for her prince to come."
"Don't expect a prince to come unless he has two thousand pounds and
a hearty appetite for discomfort, disorganization and bad food. Besides, I hardly expect you'll find a prince amongst the candidates sniffing after you and your title like mangy curs."
"Oh, you..." she bit back a scream. "It must be a blessed thing to be a man and rule the world. To have so much money you can do whatever suits your fancy and never worry if you'll have enough to pay your bills, whether or not you'll arrive home to find your property sold from underneath you. Believe you me, Marsden Manor will be mine. No one will take it from me except myself. My actions will determine the consequences."
An unearthly shriek pierced the darkness. Any thoughts regarding Stephen's stubborn behavior evaporated with the eerie silence that followed. Phoebe slapped her hand to her chest. "Dear heavens. What was that?"
"Stay behind me," Stephen ordered. "No matter what.
He didn't need to ask twice. He whisked her behind him, locking her hand in his as they ran down the hall. Stopping beside the wood bannister, they froze, listening, their rapid breathing the only sound. Another shrill cry echoed off the bare walls.
"The cook," Stephen cried. Evidently, the earlier activities were only the prelude to tonight's events. Splendid. He might never sleep. By the time they reached the cook's quarters, an eerie silence lingered. Stephen frowned. The door, slightly ajar, opened easily. Mrs. Potter lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, her face ash-gray. A broom lay at her feet.